History Book
by K Hanna Korossy
Summary: They don't have photo albums, baby books, or relatives. Dean is the sole keeper of Sam's childhood memories.


_First appeared in _Route 666 #4_ (2011), from Ashton Press_

**History Book**  
K Hanna Korossy

"Dude, it's a—" they both said in one breath.

"—vengeful spirit," Dean finished.

"—ghoul," Sam overlapped him.

They both tilted their heads, looking at each other in bafflement.

"How do you get a ghoul from a vengeful spirit?" Dean asked.

Sam made a face "Since when are vengeful spirits corporeal?" he shot back.

They stared at each other a moment. Then, "Inside," they both agreed, nodding.

Sam led the way into the motel room, while Dean glanced quickly around the lot to make sure no one had overheard their strange conversation. Or noticed that reporter Ben Scott and Special Agent Gus Young knew each other and were staying in the same dilapidated motel room.

The coast was clear, however, and he ducked in after Sam, shutting and locking the door behind him.

Sam had already taken his suit jacket off and loosened his tie. He still looked more at home with the whole Blues Brothers deal than Dean ever would, and it was times like this when a small part of him acknowledged that Sam didn't belong in this world and would one day go back to school and the law and his white-picket-fence dreams. Dean was pretty sure he'd be dead by then, so it shouldn't matter…but it still ached.

"It's not a vengeful spirit." Sam rolled up his sleeves and moved into the kitchenette to fill a kettle with water. "Giao and Leann? Their deaths weren't accidents—they were homicides."

Dean also pitched his jacket and dumped his wallet and keys on the table by the door. The coroner's office was walking distance from their motel, a happy coincidence, so Sam had taken that one on foot while Dean had driven around visiting the victims' homes. Give him people over dead bodies any day; even if they were grieving, sometimes they were female and hot and, most importantly, breathing. "Yeah, so? A spirit is a _homo._" He winced. "I mean, man. Person. Whatever—ghosts can kill people, too."

Sam's mouth had quirked, but he was back to business again as he came around the counter and dug through his discarded jacket's pocket. He pulled out his Blackberry, looked something up on it, then reached it out to Dean. "Do ghosts leave marks like that?"

Dean took the phone warily and examined it.

The picture was a close-up of a throat, the curved edges of the jaw just visible at the top. The skin was unnaturally pale—corpse skin—and marred only by several dark, oval bruises.

Finger marks. From where someone had choked it into a corpse.

He frowned as he looked up. "The reports said they died in car accidents."

"There was no sign of anyone else in the car, so the coroner decided the bruising was a few hours premortem, maybe from an attack or a fight with an abusive boyfriend."

"Both girls?" Dean raised an eyebrow.

Sam gave him a pointed _Exactly! _look.

"Okay." Dean absently pulled out the weapons bag from under the bed and removed the Colt from the back of his jeans to put it away. "So someone—or something—attacks the girls while they're driving and makes them flip their cars and kills them. Why ghouls? They don't usually go for fresh meat. And if it's a ghoul…where's the mess?" Ghouls feasted on bodies, usually dead and decaying bodies, and left scenes behind that looked like a butcher shop had exploded. The two girls had been pretty mangled in the car crashes, but Dean hadn't heard of any signs of missing organs or chewed bones.

Sam frowned, then turned back to the kitchenette as the kettle began to whistle. "The ghoul took off when the car crashed. They like to stay under the radar, and it's already dead—a car accident's not gonna hurt it. And there aren't a lot of things that physically manifest as dead people. Most shapeshifters mimic live victims."

"Yeah, no, that's a great thought, great thinking. Just three things wrong with it."

Sam had poured himself a mug of hot water and was now dunking a tea bag in it. The big pansy. "What?" he asked with the same petulant voice as when Dean would point out mistakes in his homework.

"One, we've still got no proof the dead people folks have been seeing around town had anything to do with the girls' death. For all we know, the witnesses watched _Sixth Sense _a few too many times. Two, you know as well as I do that ghouls like their meat…aged. They don't exactly go driving around looking for vics. Not to mention that they don't look very human. And three, it's a _vengeful spirit_."

Sam's lower lip tucked in, expression darkening. Ah, there it was, the face that went along with the bitchy voice. Dean could have set his watch by how far into a conversation it appeared. "Dude, people have positively identified at least five different dead loved ones walking around town, _reputable_ people. You think they're _all _delusional? Or maybe there're five different vengeful spirits?"

Dean snorted. "Right, because eyewitnesses _never _get anything wrong."

Sam scowled back. "So, did the Trans and Kokulises tell you their daughters were killed by a ghost?"

"Basically, yeah." As Sam's mouth puckered even more, Dean bobbed his head and hurried on. "Okay, not in so many words, but…" He pulled a small reporter's notebook out of his back pocket and flipped a few pages. "Mrs. Tran said Giao had been feeling guilty about a friend's death, a George Cohen. Turns out George—who's a girl, by the way—" he interjected with a faintly leering grin. He loved girls with guys' names: they were always downplaying how hot they were. "Uh, George died after falling out of a third-story window at a party she went to with Giao and," he glanced up to pin Sam's gaze, "Leann Kokulis."

Sam had stopped fixing his girly drink and dropped the annoyed brat look, face creased with thought now. Hands on his hips, he "huh-ed" at that one. "Okay, so, you think George…Cohen? George's spirit came back and killed the girls it blamed for her death?"

Dean smiled smugly and stowed his notebook. "Score one for big brother," he crowed.

Sam smirked back. "Only one problem with that, big brother. I mean, besides all the dead people in town."

Dean's smile faded.

"Leann and Giao? Crashed their cars at exactly the same moment, to the second."

And ghosts, for all their abilities to jump from place to place, still couldn't be two places at the same time. Dean's face fell. But you couldn't keep Dean Winchester down for long, and he quickly rallied. "Okay, fine, genius, besides the Haley Joel reports, you've got bupkis pointing to ghouls. Where's your proof?"

Sam grabbed his tea and then bent down to snag something out of the mini-fridge under the counter. When he came around to the beds, he had a beer in hand that he offered to Dean in conciliation.

Dean grudgingly took the offering—wasn't like he could ever stay annoyed long at the kid anyway—and flipped the top off with his ring.

Sam sat across from him on the end of the other bed, their knees almost touching, and reclaimed his discarded Blackberry, skimming through it one-handed. "All right, so, we know Giao Tran and Leann Kokulis died violent, suspicious deaths. And both girls were somehow connected with the death of a friend, George Cohen. At the same time, there've been six reports around town of witnesses seeing dead people, and not the same dead people. Ghouls can take on the forms of anyone they've eaten, right? Well, maybe sometimes they take on more, like unfinished business. The ghoul snacks on George Cohen—"

"—gets a taste for Leann and Giao," Dean finished reluctantly. "Yeah, okay. That's still not proof but…maybe. Or…maybe the two cases aren't even related."

Sam frowned. "But you said Leann and Giao—"

"I'm not talking about the girls," Dean cut in. "I mean the dead people and the two accidents. It's not like you can't have two kinds of supernatural activity going on in the same place, right?"

Sam canted his head thoughtfully. "So…you're thinking a vengeful spirit _and _a ghoul?"

"Or something else we haven't thought of yet."

Sam sipped his tea. "Could be a golem. George's family's Jewish. And we don't know a lot about golems—maybe their features can shift, too, be, I don't know, whoever you're thinking about."

Dean gave him a deeply skeptical look. "What, like…a thoughtform? You think it, we blink it into being? Dude, okay, yeah, there's a lot of things like that in lore, but golems? I've never heard of them reading minds or shapeshifting."

"If the witnesses were drunk, or far away—"

"People see what they want to see, Sam. They don't need a golem for that. Look at ten different descriptions we got from ten different witnesses on the last hunt."

"So why here, Dean? Why this town, six different witnesses? And why in the same week as two girls dying in suspicious car accidents?"

It was a fair question, just a part of their hashing out a tough case. So why did it always feel like there was a tiny bit of "make sense of this for me, Dean" in Sam's question? Like four-year-old Sam wanting to know why spring followed winter, or eight-year-old Sam wanting to know why animals died, or twelve-year-old Sam wanting to know how you kissed a girl, or sixteen-year-old Sam wanting to know why he couldn't stay behind when Dean and John went on hunts. Even at his most rebellious, there had been some part of Sam that had always looked to his brother for answers.

Like why the shtriga they'd killed not long ago still haunted Dean.

He cleared his throat, sitting up. "I don't know." Dean hated to say that, seeing Sam's shoulders fall ever so slightly at the admission. "Look, we'll check into the ghoul thing, see if the graveyard looks like someone's been using it as an all-you-can-eat buffet, okay? We can start with George's grave." At Sam's raised eyebrow, he added. "And check if George left anybody behind who's got some dirt on their little skull cap."

"Yarmulke."

"Gesundheit. But I'm telling you, Sam, it doesn't feel right. The girls' rooms, you could practically smell the ozone there. It's got all the signs of a spirit, something with serious anger vibes."

Sam sipped thoughtfully at his tea. "Could still be a few other things we haven't considered, like maybe a zombie, or a revenant."

Dean perked up at the idea. "Zombies would be cool. They usually come with a lot higher and messier body count than that, though. Same with revenants." Sam and his tea reminded Dean of the sweating bottle in his own hand, and he chugged back some of the beer. "I think we'd have a lot more than a half-dozen sightings, though, not to mention a lot more freaking out."

Sam grimaced, unable to argue, but at least it wasn't Dean he was perturbed with this time.

He drained the beer in one more pull. Yeah, Dean knew exactly how he felt.

00000

"_Hey, Sammy, you remember that time we had to leave Bayonne in the middle of the night? You were in, like, second grade and all excited about getting to play a vegetable in the class play. A carrot? Or—no, I got it, a beet. 'Cause you were short and round back then—heh. _

"_Anyway, you got really upset with Dad that we had to beat it before you had a chance to beet it—get it? You didn't talk to Dad for, like, a whole morning or something. Which for a motormouth little kid like you was a big deal. _

"_Dad never told you why we were leaving, did he. I mean, not like we didn't have to move around a lot chasing hunts. Back then you thought it was just Dad's job, but that time…it wasn't. Fact is, it was kinda my fault: I had this big bruise on my arm from shooting the rifle wrong, and my PE teacher saw it and got suspicious. He'd already called CPS, so we had to shag ass before they came and took us away from Dad._

"_He was real sorry about not getting to see you be a beet, though. I mean, God knows why, dude…but he was."_

00000

After dinner, they'd stopped by the Cohen home to talk to George's family. Or mom, as it turned out: her father had died years before of leukemia. Mrs. Cohen looked exhausted and defeated, too drained to have much room left for anger. George didn't have any siblings or other close family, and Sam and Dean agreed with a silent glance that Mrs. Cohen hadn't been raising any golems on her own.

Dean insisted on stopping for pie until it got completely dark, which was about how long it took him to eat three slices, anyway, while Sam nibbled at one. Then they were off to the graveyard where public record showed George Cohen was buried. Either her grave was intact, in which case they'd do a precautionary salt-and-burn, or it would be disturbed and they'd know they were hunting ghouls. Which liked to hang out at the graveyard anyway, so it was all good. With any luck, the job would be done that evening.

"I love Jewish graveyards," Dean declared as they dug weapons, shovels, and salt and lighter fluid out of the trunk. Both of them collected iron and salt rounds for their shotguns, covering all bases.

Sam gave him an amused look. "'Cause the tattoos they allow in regular cemeteries offend you so much."

Dean screwed up his face at his brother; Sam came up with the weirdest crap sometimes. "No," he said overly patiently, "because they don't usually use concrete liners for the graves. Forget vengeful spirits—you know what's scary? You with a backhoe." He gave an exaggerated shiver.

Sam rolled his eyes. "Jerk."

"Bitch," Dean threw idly back. But his mouth tugged up contentedly as he finished filling the weapons bag and slammed the trunk lid shut. "Spirit or ghoul—loser buys breakfast."

"I'm surprised you can even think of food after gorging yourself on pie," Sam muttered behind him.

Dean grinned and led the way in.

George Cohen had died only a couple of weeks before, so the grave would be easier to find. But the cemetery wasn't that big, probably not a large Jewish population in a midwest town of this size, and they'd looked up what quadrant the grave was in. It was the farthest away, naturally, but it would give them a chance to scope out the boneyard as they went. Dean's head swiveled as they walked, looking for other disturbed graves, signs of predation or movement, even as his other senses were alert for hints of ozone or rot, sudden drops of temperature, and any out-of-place sounds.

He knew Sam would be doing the same thing behind him, and Dean acknowledged once more to himself how much better he felt with his brother at his back. Not just because he trusted Sam, although he did, more than anyone else on Earth except for maybe their dad. But also because they'd spent their lives training together, taught by the same teacher, learning the same material. There was never any question of Sam not knowing something important or moving an unexpected way. And that made for one unbeatable hunting partner.

Right, Dean thought glumly. That was the only reason he wanted Sam at his back. Didn't have anything to do with how much he missed the kid.

"Over there," Sam said quietly behind him, and Dean's attention snapped back.

They were in the right quarter now; they should've had to start reading gravestones at this point to find George. The churned-up grave on their right, however, was a neon sign. Dean cringed; this wasn't a fresh grave. It was a disturbed one. Sam had been right, they were looking for a ghoul. He'd been so sure…

Dean swung the bag off his shoulder, silently reaching in for the shotguns and iron rounds. Only way to kill a ghoul was to take the head off; salt wouldn't faze them. Sam's shotgun was already loaded with iron. They'd decided to do one of each, be prepared, and Dean grasped that one first, ready to toss it to his waiting brother.

"Dean."

Dean glanced up from the bag, seeing Sam frowning at the gravestone, shovel loose in his grasp. "What?"

His brother looked up at him, confusion in his eyes. "It's not George's grave."

Dean peered around, frowning as he caught sight of the inscription. _Rodney Mather, Beloved Husband. _"Huh. That's weird." He gave the grave another look and started. "And it's been refilled."

"Very astute," a new voice lilted across the silent graveyard air. "But I would have expected no less from you."

The voice, the accent, sent a shiver down Dean's spine before his brain even made the connection. His face darkened, Sam's shotgun sliding smoothly out of the bag and into a two-handed grip as Dean scanned the graveyard. "Trinidad."

There was a light laugh. "I'm flattered you remember me, Dean Winchester."

"Dean, what—?"

Dean kicked the bag over in response, not risking even a glance at Sam. He got that his brother was curious and needed to know. But that would have to wait until they weren't under attack, because no matter how unthreatening the bodiless voice was, Dean had no illusions that they were in serious trouble here.

A flicker of movement caught the corner of his eye. Dean swung the shotgun that way, relieved to hear Sam reloading the other gun with iron rounds behind him. The next second, however, another movement thirty degrees over had him quickly reaiming. And then another, this time in Sam's direction. Trinidad wasn't alone.

The figures crept out in macabre silence. And Dean realized he and Sam had both been wrong.

Revenants were basically reanimated dead. Like zombies, they bore the signs of decay and any injury they'd taken with them into death. Unlike zombies, they had more than brain food on their mind. Revenants had purpose, instilled in them by the necromancer who raised them, and could think, not just react. Dean counted seven, and that was all he could see thus far. Nor had Trinidad showed his face yet.

"Sweep?" Sam asked low behind him.

"On three," Dean murmured back. "One, two—"

He heard Sam's shotgun boom behind him the same second he pulled the trigger on his own.

There wasn't anything to think about here. Revenants were always bad. Trinidad was definitely up to no good. And his little army was shuffling closer. They had to take out the dead before the dead reached the Winchesters. Dean racked his gun, got a second head shot.

Sam had held his second shot, covering while Dean reloaded, just as Dean would do a moment later. Another round and they should be able to take all the creatures down. Assuming Trinidad didn't have more standing by.

He finished loading the shells and snapped his shotgun shut, raising it to fire again.

That was when everything went south with the speed of an express train.

Their ears were still ringing with all the shotgun blasts; they had to rely on their other senses to keep track of the enemy. But Dean had been busy with his gun for a few precious seconds, and Sam didn't have eyes in the back of his head. The revenant must have been close, maybe hiding just a row over, because it wasn't even one of the seven Dean had counted. Wherever it had been crouching, it was on Sam before either of them could do anything about it.

Sam hit the gravestone hard head first. The crack that followed was the breaking of bone, not just the sound of impact. He fell to the ground with the limp gracelessness of the utterly unconscious and didn't move again. Dean couldn't even see if he was breathing.

His world stilled. His heart stopped, his breath frozen, senses cut except for the sight of Sam's limp body.

"Oops. Sorry about that."

Dean's head swung up. Trinidad—he and Dad never had gotten his real name, called him that because of his accent—stood not ten feet away, smiling.

Dean raised his shotgun, not an iota of hesitation in him at the thought of killing a man.

A revenant, a redhead who'd probably been pretty once—maybe even Leann—stepped in between Dean and the necromancer. He blew her head off, but another took her place.

Still, calm, machine-like, Dean blasted that one, too, reloaded with an economy of movement, kept shooting. The revenants weren't dodging and Dean's eerie serenity made him a crack shot. He took them down like ducks in a shooting gallery. The smell of powder and the echo of gunfire filled his world until he scanned for the next target…and came up empty.

Trinidad was gone. The ground around them was littered with headless revenants. And Sam still hadn't moved an inch.

"Sam!" Dean dropped the gun and ran the three steps to Sam's side, where he dropped to his knees. "Sammy?" He fumbled for a pulse—his hands were shaking _now?_—and finally gasped in a breath when he found it. But it was sluggish, and as he peeled up Sam's eyelids, one of the pupils beneath didn't shrink.

And then he saw the clear liquid trickling out of his brother's ear.

Dean swallowed. Not good, this was— He grabbed for his cell phone, dialing before he could even think about the wisdom of calling civilians to the scene of a battlefield. This was bad, not something he could treat, he had to get Sam help…

The dispatcher promised help was on the way, and Dean cut her off before she could ask more questions. This was so bad. He had a bagful of weapons, a lot of bodies, and Sam…Sammy was…

He chafed his brother's cold cheek, lightly so he wouldn't rock Sam's head. That crack could have been Sam's neck breaking, or his spine. Dean couldn't risk budging him at all. But he had to…he had to…

"It's gonna be okay. You hear me? I'll look after you—you got nothing to worry about. It's gonna be okay."

Sam didn't even twitch.

He still hadn't moved when Dean got back from hiding the weapons, when the paramedics descended on them, when Dean watched him disappear through the hospital door for x-rays.

As he sank down on a chair and buried his head in his hands, he'd wondered if he'd ever see Sam move again.

00000

"_You remember that time Dad had pneumonia? One of the few times I can remember he didn't yell at us when we let someone into the room, but he was really bad off, you didn't even know._

"_It wasn't pneumonia, Sam. He got bit by something—I never got the full story—and no one knew a cure. It wasn't supposed to be lethal, just make you really, really sick, so Dad limped home and crawled into bed. We told you he had pneumonia so you wouldn't go blabbing it around school how sick he was. But I'm glad Miss Phelps from two doors down came over. I didn't know what to do, Sammy, Dad was so sick…_

"_It was pretty good after that, though, wasn't it? You remember, he was laid up for a while and you got to practice your reading on him. I think he pretty much caught up on your childhood that week—you didn't even notice when he went to sleep, you just sat on the bed and kept talking to him. _

"_I envied you guys a little, you know. You had no idea how bad it had been, and Dad was actually listening to you. But I was just so freakin' glad he was okay, it didn't even matter."_

00000

"Mr. Lennon?"

Dean's head shot up.

The doctor smiled at him, but with sympathy. "Could we talk in here?" He directed Dean to a nearby door. The "family room." It was usually where bad news was given, in private so you wouldn't make a scene.

Throat tight and heart racing, he got up and followed the guy in.

They sat, Dean rigid and angled forward. "My brother, is he—?"

"Sam's in the ICU. He—"

Dean tuned out a little then, just breathing again. Sam wasn't dead. Okay. Okay, he could handle the rest. He started listening again at the sound of _fracture. _"Wait, what?"

The doctor didn't seem offended. "It's the usual protocol for skull fractures this severe. The brain swells with any kind of head injury, but it's a real danger in injuries like this. We'll be keeping an eye on the pressure, and if it doesn't go down enough or in time, we'll have to open his skull to prevent severe brain damage. But there's also a good chance the swelling will reduce on its own. So we're just going to keep Sam immobilized and as comfortable as we can and hope for the best."

"So." Dean's voice broke. He licked his lips, cleared his throat. "So his neck and spine's okay? No paralysis or anything?"

The doctor shook his head. "Besides some bruising, the injuries are limited to the fractured skull. I know it sounds strange to say it, but your brother really was lucky."

"Yeah." Dean snorted softly. "Lucky."

The doctor looked at him a moment. He'd probably told Dean his name, and Dean would have to get it at some point so he could ask for the guy as needed, but right now his brain refused to take in more information than Sam being alive. "Mr. Lennon, in cases like this we waive visiting hours and encourage family to sit with the patient as much as they wish. I think it does both the patient and the family good. Are you ready to go see Sam?"

"Yeah. Yes, definitely." Stupid question. Dean got to his feet, rubbing sweaty palms against his jeans. "Thanks. Thank you."

Something outside the room snagged the doctor's attention, and he raised an eyebrow. "I'll have a nurse take you, but first I think those gentlemen need to talk to you."

Dean turned, apathetically noting the two uniformed cops out in the hall. "Yeah, that's… It'll just be a minute."

"All right." The doctor patted Dean's shoulder, having to reach up a little to do it. "Try not to worry. Your brother is young and strong—I'm optimistic."

"Yeah." Dean took a breath, held it, let it out. "Yeah, me too."

00000

"_The nurse that was just in here, she kinda reminded me of Mr. Lackey. Remember him? Always wore the same sweat suit whenever we saw him? His apartment smelled awesome every night, though—I bet the dude had been a chef or something._

"_Then there was that neighbor we had, I think it was in Louisiana? Mr. Rand. You remember him? You really liked him because he always had lemon drops for you, and he had that collection of baseball cards. I swear, you started collecting cards after that just because you thought Mr. Rand was so cool._

"_You were really upset when we moved out of that building, even if it was a dump. Dad said we had to move for work, but you were too young to know we didn't leave town, just moved into a motel down the street. Next day, Mr. Rand got arrested for another little hobby he had: taking boys' pictures. Someone beat him up and tied him down in his living room, left him surrounded by his picture collection before calling the cops. _

"_I know you didn't get it, and we didn't want you to. But Dad? He did his best to protect us from everything, not just the supernatural stuff out there."_

00000

Sam looked…bad.

Amazingly, there hadn't been any blood at the graveyard. Maybe all that hair had cushioned his head enough to keep the skin from splitting open; Dean didn't know or care. The damage inside was bad enough.

Sam had just looked like he was sleeping when he'd first collapsed, but now, internal bleeding from the skull fracture had had time to collect in the soft tissue. His eyes were blackened and swollen, as was the right side of his face. The bruising was less deep there, but the skin was still painted lavender and dark blue and was glossy as it stretched tight. The sharp planes of his face were lost under all the edema, to the point that Sam wasn't easily recognizable.

Dean knew him, though. Not inside-out, not anymore, but he knew Sam's gawky frame and curling hair, the long fingers under the swelling, the rhythm of his breathing even unconscious. He knew every scar on that body, even the few additions from college, and the faded student's callus on the side of his index finger and the new shooter's callus on his trigger finger. He knew Sam's determination—stubbornness, when Dean was feeling less generous—and strength.

He knew they would get through this, because there wasn't another option.

The ICU cubicle was small, open at the top and at the entrance, not made for long-term visiting. But the staff had dragged in a worn recliner that Dean imagined had witnessed many serious vigils, and he sat down on the edge of it, studying every monitor crowded around Sam's bed. The numbers were all a little skewed but nothing dangerous as far as he could tell. A drip snaked into Sam's arm, and another collected normal-colored pee at the foot of the bed. He was breathing on his own. Only that misshapen, bruised face and his unnatural stillness gave away that he wasn't just resting.

Dean hesitated, looking for a good place to touch him, and finally settled on the nearest biceps. Sam's arms had gotten ropier in the few months he'd been back to hunting, losing the little softness he'd gained in college and toned to peak shape once more. He'd always been skinny, but he was fast and strong now, almost a match for Dean when they sparred. "Kick-ass hunter," he murmured.

Sam breathed even and shallow, eyes motionless behind their puffy lids.

Dean cleared his throat. "So, the cops figured out on their own that all the revenants were residents of the boneyard long before we got there, so no annoying murder charges to work around, but they're thinking grave desecration now. Only reason they haven't hauled me down to jail is that they can't figure out how you got hurt. Oh, and that luscious Angela at the diner? Totally remembered me and swears we were there less than an hour before. Even Andy and Barney got that that didn't leave us enough time to dig up all those bodies. Honestly, I don't think they know what to think, but it's gonna look bad if they yank me out of the hospital, so…" Dean shrugged. "Not like I'm going anywhere without you, right?"

Sheriff Taylor had looked at him a little too perceptively when he'd said as much to Dean. Contradictions, confusions, and all, he was still pretty sure the cops would have kept him in custody until they figured things out simply because he was the only guy left standing in the middle of a gory scene. But apparently it was painted all over Dean's face that he was terrified for Sam and wasn't leaving him without a serious fight, and for once he was grateful at being so transparent. Not that he'd ever tried to hide that particular truth.

"Trinidad's still out there, but…" Dean narrowed his eyes. "I don't think he's gonna try anything here. I got it covered if he does, but my guess? He's a little busy rebuilding his army again. Like that's reassuring, right? But it'll wait, Sam. I'll call Caleb or Jefferson if I have to, but I'm not going after him on my own. Gotta have my trusty wingman, right?"

Did Sam pull in a slightly deeper breath? It was totally possible Dean was imagining it, seeing what he wanted to.

Dean deflated, dragging his free hand over his eyes. "So, looks like we've got some time to kill. You got any good stories? 'Cause I could talk."

God knows he could talk. He could spin a complicated backstory without taking a breath, charm the pants—although he preferred skirts—off anyone with two X chromosomes, and a few XYs too, and talk his way into Fort Knox. It was almost always lies, though. Dean rarely played the part of Dean Winchester.

Sam's return had changed everything, however: Dean's confidence, his joy, his dreams, his idea of fun. And his honesty. He couldn't pull the usual acts with Sam; Sam called him on it even when he tried. And so Dean had found himself rediscovering himself along with his brother. And now…

Now he didn't even want to lie. Not here, not with Sam looking so hurt and quiet. Not when the kid needed his brother, the real one.

Dean studied his face again, massaged his arm a little. "So, just you and me again, huh? I swear to you, Sammy, we're gonna find Dad. But until then, I'm with you all the way." Echoes of what Sam had told him in the Burkitsville bus depot. Dean had joked it off then, but he was pretty sure Sam had gotten that it went both ways.

Now, though, he had to make sure.

"You know, about a month after you left for school, I went after you…"

00000

"_I thought a lot about what you said when you left for school, about picking between Dad and you, and how Mom wouldn't have wanted me to hunt all my life. It made a lot of sense, and Dad… Dad wasn't exactly making the choice hard. He changed after you left, Sam, started drinking more and talking less, separating on hunts more. Wasn't exactly like I had a lot left to stay for. _

"_So a couple of weeks after you left, I figured, screw this. I almost got killed on a hunt because my head wasn't in the game and I didn't have back-up, and it just wasn't worth it anymore, you know? I had the Impala by then, and I just left for Cali after a job. Dad was God knows where and I just didn't care. I missed my geek brother._

"_I was in Nevada when Dad called. He'd been looking into a Yellow Cat and he let himself get taken, lost almost half the blood in his body before he got away. He was laid up, sick as a dog, the Yellow Cat still on the loose, and he needed me._

"_I turned around. Didn't even have to think about. 'Cause as much as I missed you, Sam, I figured you didn't need me. But Dad…Dad was going to get himself killed hunting on his own. Maybe it was picking him over you, I don't know. But I just couldn't leave him." _

00000

A routine soon developed, as it usually did even in the midst of crisis.

Dean would talk until his voice gave out, then would sleep for a few hours, hand clamped around some part of Sam so he would be aware of the slightest tremor. He picked through Sam's meal trays—not like Sam would miss them—and went out for coffee from the dispenser occasionally, or to the bathroom to wash up. Otherwise, he stayed in that chair, with Sam, rubbing his arm, his hair, his leg or chest, anchoring Sam and himself while he waited for his brother to wake up.

Sam had started rousing on the second day, or at least the doctor called it that. He couldn't open his eyes very far due to the swelling, but the blank, slitted look told Dean no one was really home anyway. The swelling was going down, Sam was responding to stimuli, but not to Dean, not yet. So he kept talking.

He'd done this before. A few times when Sam had been feverish and calmed only at the sound of Dean's voice. Twice in the weeks after Jessica died, when Sam waded so far into his grief that Dean had to throw him a lifeline to get him out. And twice when Sam had been in the hospital, limp and silent like this, and Dean had talked to fill the silence and remind Sam he had something to come back to.

Maybe just a little for himself, too. Because this was history he shared only with Sam and their dad, and if they weren't there, no one was left.

Including, Dean sometimes felt, himself.

00000

"_I like animals, I do. But you were like a wildlife magnet._

"_I guess it makes sense that strays are attracted to some of the places we stayed at. I mean, with all the rats and bugs and holes in the walls, they practically set out the welcome mat for homeless animals. And whatever was hanging around always found you. _

"_I don't know how many times I had to tell you we weren't keeping the mangy dog or the stupid turtle or the baby squirrel you came home with. Sometimes I found them a home with one of the kids from school, sometimes they just died or disappeared on their own. But then you really fell in love, with this ugly little gray cat you named Ollie._

"_Dad was on a longer hunt, and I guess I didn't have the heart to tell you to get rid of it right away. Next thing I know, you had a box for it and had named it and would've even slept with it if I'd let you. You remember this? You were still pretty young, but you really loved that cat._

"_But then Dad came back and we had to move, and we couldn't take Ollie with us, of course. So…I told you he died, that he got hit by a car. You got really upset for a while, but we talked about cat heaven—you were a girl even when you were a kid, dude—and you were finally okay with it. We had a cat funeral and everything. _

"_Yeah, well, Ollie didn't really die. Dad said we should tell you that so you could say goodbye to him, but really we took him to a shelter after you were asleep. He wasn't so bad looking once you cleaned him up—they said he'd be adopted for sure. I just couldn't tell you that some other kid got to keep Ollie after he'd been yours. _

"_I still wonder sometimes if we did the right thing then. I mean, we were lying so much to you already. You were a pretty mature kid—I think you would've gotten that another family could take care of him like we couldn't. _

"_How much space would a cat have taken up in the car, anyway?"_

00000

"…'ead…'urts…"

The whisper was so soft, just a breath, Dean wasn't sure he heard it at first. He scrambled to his feet, leaning over Sam, whose eyes were closed. There were faint lines across his forehead, though, and when Dean smoothed his hair back and laid his palm there, he felt Sam's frown. "Sam? Can you hear me?"

"…'ead 'urts."

Dean breathed out, feeling his eyes prickle. "Yeah, I bet it does," he said softly. "Sammy, listen to me—it's gonna get better soon, okay? I promise. Just gotta get some more rest."

Sam's head shifted a bare millimeter; the brace on his neck wouldn't allow much more movement, but he didn't seem to have the energy for more anyway. "…'en?"

His thumb rubbed across Sam's hairline. "I'm here, Sam. Got this covered, bro, all right? You just take it easy."

Sam's mouth curled the tiniest bit, a shadow of his usual stubbornness at being kept out of the loop. But then he sighed and his face smoothed out, his breath deepening.

"Thattaboy," Dean said quietly. He exhaled hard, rubbed a hand over his eyes. "Can't wait to get you outta here, man. I'll even put up with your brooding and bad taste without complaining for, like, a _day. _Just get better already, okay?"

Sam slept on. The swelling in his face had gone down a little, the worst of the bruises fading to blues and purples instead of blacks, the lavenders moving up the rainbow into light blue and green. He twitched in his sleep sometimes as he dreamed, and his fingers curled open and shut. Dean experimentally put two of his own fingers in the middle of Sam's nearest palm, and just like when he'd been a baby, Sam's hand closed around them in a weak but real grip. It made Dean grin stupidly.

"Doin' good, Sammy." Dad had always seemed to think that withholding praise made his sons try harder. He never had gotten that Sam would have fetched him the moon if he'd showed his youngest a fraction of his pride and love.

00000

"_I know you thought Dad didn't care about your school stuff, but I bet there was a lot he did that you didn't even know about._

"_Like, do you remember those round magnets we used to cart around? I think Dad got them out of a busted radio. He kept those just so he could put your latest works of art up on the fridge wherever we were staying. And, dude, let me tell you, you weren't exactly an artist. It takes a real dad to appreciate those scribblings you were so proud of._

"_He went to a couple of your plays, too, just sat in the back where you couldn't see him. I kinda begged him once to sit with me and let you know he was there, but he said if you weren't expecting him, he wouldn't disappoint you. But I know you never stopped hoping, Sammy, or being disappointed._

"_You remember that science fair project you worked so hard on? Something about alkalines and bases. I helped you put the display together, and Dad promised he'd come see it when it went on display. And then he got a job and came back after the fair, and you were so mad at him?_

"_Yeah, I know, which time, right?_

"_But he never told you that he went to the school that night, broke in, and checked out your display. And he was proud of it, Sam. I know he couldn't tell you himself, but he gave me some money to take you out for ice cream and that was his way of trying to let you know."_

00000

"Thought he…felt guilty."

So Sam had been listening to that one, huh? Dean grinned and leaned in. "Hey, it talks!"

The neck brace and half the monitors were gone. Sam's face just looked now like it had taken a couple of punches, cheekbones visible again even if his face remained a little puffy and colorful. He still only opened his eyes halfway, both because the light bothered him and because he didn't have much energy, but it was enough to give Dean a baleful look.

It only made him smile wider. "You want some water?"

Sam dragged his tongue over dry lips in answer.

Dean grabbed a cup and poured lukewarm water from the pitcher, then dropped in a straw. "Don't forget, small sips. Don't think you wanna upchuck right now."

Sam even managed to faintly roll his eyes before he drank, tiny little sucks on the straw.

"How's the head?" Dean asked as he set the cup aside and dabbed at Sam's chin with the edge of the sheet.

"Seven," Sam whispered.

Out of ten: better, but not good. "Meds are coming in…" Dean consulted the clock. "…twenty minutes. You wanna try to sleep until then?" Since the doctor had finally taken the possibility of brain surgery off the table and Sam was increasingly aware, they'd started giving him painkillers, if in small doses. Sam slept most of the time anyway, but in between, Dean couldn't help but empathize with his pinched expression and the grip he kept on the sheets.

Sam's head rocked microscopically from side to side. "Keep talking," he breathed. "Don' remember 'is."

Dean shrugged. "I'm not surprised, man—you were a kid, and Dad kept a lot of things from us"—_you—_"so you're gonna remember it different." He shifted awkwardly; somehow the stories came easier when he didn't think Sam really heard what he was saying. "You sure you want me to keep going?"

"Please?"

"Sure, no problem. You know I love to talk." Dean grinned, but Sam's eyes were already closed. He picked at a loose thread on the blanket, trying to think what story he could tell next, one that wouldn't embarrass him too much.

Movement made him look up. Sam's hand had let go of its spastic grip on the blanket over his chest and was sliding down across his torso. Dean watched it with a frown as it traveled by slow inches down his side, until it bumped Dean's hand. And there, after a moment of blind groping, Sam grabbed him and held on tight.

Dean swallowed. Well, it wasn't like he'd sought out Sam's hand, right? If his brother was hurting that bad, the least Dean could do was let Sam hang on to him.

He cleared his throat. "There was one time, you know, when Dad moved because of you."

00000

"_It wasn't like you did anything wrong. Dude, you were a total goody two-shoes then, always got your homework done, respected your elders, acted all shocked and disapproving whenever I snitched a candy bar for you. You were practically Saint Sam—it was pretty hilarious._

"_But you were also a four-year-old kid, and we were someplace where little kids were disappearing and turning up dead._

"_I honestly don't think Dad got it at first. I mean, for being such a kickass soldier, the man has a serious blind spot where his family's concerned. Just like the shtriga… Anyway, he wasn't trying to use you for bait or anything, he just didn't get that moving us there was like bringing along take-out. _

"_So there we were in a small town where three kids under five had gone missing, and Dad shows up with a four-year-old. I didn't know what he was hunting—Dad always told me to look after you, so that wasn't a surprise. And then one night, something climbed in the window. _

"_You'd had a bad dream or something and crawled into bed with me, but the goblin didn't realize it had to go through me to get to you. Big mistake. I stabbed it in the hand with my switchblade and started yelling, and Dad stormed in like the cavalry._

"_We moved the next day, two states over. Dad said he found someone else to do the hunt, maybe Caleb? I was all grateful to him for taking you out of danger but, I don't know, maybe I should have been mad he took you there in the first place. All I know is, he gave up that hunt for you, and he never left hunts unfinished. That's gotta be worth something, right?"_

00000

When Sam could make the trip—leaning heavily on Dean's arm—to the bathroom and back with only one rest stop on the way, Dean figured it was time to split.

"Still dizzy, huh?" he asked sympathetically as Sam sank sideways down onto his bed with a groan, mouth and eyes pinched tightly shut.

Sam breathed through his nose a few times before answering. "Just feels like a concussion now."

Dean nodded; he knew that feeling well, and bent to lift Sam's legs up onto the bed. "You feel comfortable with just me taking care of you? We can stay another day or two…" Their insurance was already on its second trip through the system after the previous "mistake" he made on the paperwork that hadn't turned up anyone with that number, but wheels moved slowly and it should take a little longer before they definitively bounced. That and some charm laid on the insurance lady, a matron built like a brick keg…

"It's fine. I'm fine." Sam would've made a far better case for himself if he didn't sound so breathless when he said it, but already a little of his color was returning. "Just a headache and a little dizzy when I move. And sick." He opened his eyes and gave Dean a rueful smile. "The usual."

"Yeah, right." But Dean let himself be swayed as he always did. With Sam's life no longer hanging in the balance, they were back to jury-rigging their way through life, and that included medical care and a "just you and me" approach to everything. At least until they found Dad.

He sat down on the chair—a regular vinyl one now that he wasn't spending every waking moment in the hospital—and reached for the magazine on the end table that he'd already flipped through about a dozen times.

"Dean?" Sam said, sounding sleepy. His eyes were closed again.

"Yeah."

"Who was that guy in the cemetery?"

He'd been waiting for this, but had sorta hoped they could discuss it later. Like, when they were rolling out of town. Dean took a breath, tossed the magazine aside. "Trinidad. That's what we called him, anyway—never caught a name. Dude's bad news, Sam: bokor, witch, necromancer—if it's dark, he's done it."

"Great. Y'figure out what he wants here?"

Dean blinked. "Uh, no, I've been a little busy. Who cares what he wants? Guy's raising the dead and siccing 'em on the living. Whatever he wants, it's not gonna be good."

"I know, but…" Sam shifted a little more comfortably, tucking his hand under his cheek as he studied Dean. Sam Winchester, hunter and lawyer-to-be, looked about five years old that way, not that Dean was going to tell him. "Aren't you even curious, man? I mean, why Leann and Giao? What else is going on here?"

"I don't know," Dean said flatly. "And honestly? I don't care. Soon as you can cross a room without looking like you're gonna faint, we're putting this place in the rear view, let someone else take it. We've paid our dues on this one, Sam."

Sam frowned at him, troubled rather than disapproving. "Did you and Dad meet this guy while I was at school?"

Dean shifted his jaw. "No, before." At Sam's surprised look, he sighed. "Look, you were…Dad sheltered you from a lot. You were just a kid, and he really was trying to protect you."

Sam studied him. "Even if it meant I got mad at him because I didn't know the truth."

"Even if." Dean's shoulders lifted halfheartedly. "Some things you were just too little to know about, and some we—_he_—didn't want you to know. So what you do remember, it's just part of the story."

A few years back, Sam would have shut down at that, angry and upset that others had made choices for him yet again. This time, though, he looked more pained. The huff of laughter came out strangled. "It's like we didn't even grow up together."

That hurt, more than he would have expected it to. Dean looked away, chewing his lip, unable to answer.

A minute passed, Sam breathing raggedly and Dean measuredly. It did feel like they weren't together, like a chasm had opened between chair and bed, brother and brother.

Then Sam made a soft sound, turning his body so his knees bumped up against the hands Dean had absently clasped on the edge of the bed.

"Tell me more, okay?"

He looked up at Sam, his face tight to hide the raw edges. Sammy smiled back at him, a little rough, too, but hopeful, wanting. _Make sense of this for me, Dean. _Just like the kid Dean had known for so many years.

So what if he was Sam's history book? He _did_ know Sam, and Sam knew Dean more than the kid gave himself credit for. The details, the backstories didn't really matter that much. Sam had grown up knowing he was loved, still knew it, and that was what mattered.

Dean shook his head, wondering, really, who'd been fooling whom all their lives. "Okay, one more story, then you need to get more sleep if we're busting you out tonight."

Sam settled in to listen with tired satisfaction.

Just like when he'd been a third his size.

00000

"_Dad kept an eye on you at Stanford more than you realized. It's not like he ever talked about it, stupid pride and all. But it was pretty obvious._

"_You know that second semester during your freshman year when you didn't have enough money left over to buy all your books? That money the financial aid office found for you? That was Dad. And a year later when you wanted to lease the place for you and Jessica and you didn't have enough collateral? That was Jim, after Dad called him. And the sweet deal you found on that old Volvo when you needed a ride for your summer job? Bobby, when Dad let him know._

"_You probably also never knew that your dorm room was painted with iron-laced paint, or that the TV your buddy Chris passed on to you had some devil's shoestring and hyssop in it. I never met Jessica except for that one night, but we checked her out, too, made sure she was clean. You were never on your own there, Sammy, no matter how much it felt like it._

"_But the box of rubbers you found in your bookbag after you moved in with Jessica that you thought was one of your friends messing with you… That was all me, bro." _

00000

Sam had fallen asleep almost the moment Dean turned the engine over, like the rumble of the engine was a lullaby.

In a way, it had been all through his life. He'd slept a lot in the car over the years, from car seats to slumped against Dean to stretched out alone in the backseat to, these days, curled up in the passenger seat. A cracked head wasn't helping his awareness, either. Dean had made sure to snag a fat pillow to cushion Sam's head from the unyielding surface of the window and, sure enough, the minute they'd pulled away from the hospital, Sam had been out. Had barely stirred the whole trip back to the motel.

Dean smiled at him before he slid as silently as possible out of the car. He wondered again if he shouldn't oil the hinges on the Impala's door; a loud approach wasn't exactly a bonus on a hunt. But it was another familiar part of their childhood, of their childhood home, and he'd never been able to make himself do it. Everything else changed enough as it was, he couldn't help but think as he gave Sam a final look, then eased his door almost shut. He could lock up after he opened their room and maneuvered Sam inside and to bed.

There were no signs of break-in on the door or lock; Dean would check later to make sure he hadn't missed something stupid. But there wasn't any reason to think something was wrong, not until he took a step into the dim room and the hair on the back of his neck rose.

He was already reaching for the gun that wasn't there—stupid hospital metal detectors—when the lightly accented voice mocked him from a corner of the room.

"Finally. We were beginning to think we'd have to come to you instead of you coming to us, Dean." A light snapped on, throwing into spotlight the slim figure seated in the one easy chair.

Fear and anger slithered down Dean's spine, but he showed none of it, just bared his teeth in an unfriendly smile. "Nice. What movie did you get that bit from?" He scoped out the situation even as he spoke, noting the flickers of movements in the shadowy edges of the room.

Trinidad's pleasant expression didn't waver. "Oh, I'm writing the script for this one all by myself, young Winchester."

"Like death scenes for Giao Tran and Leann Kokulis?" Dean asked flatly.

A smug smile. "You thought it was poor George, didn't you. Look into that 'party' where Ms. Cohen made her exit and you'll find it wasn't exactly a teenage romp. George Cohen got…uncomfortable and wanted to leave. We merely helped her."

"And then Leann and Giao had second thoughts. So you kill two Delilahs with one stone. Nice."

"As I said, very astute. The apple didn't fall far from the tree. A pity I must further trim the cast of my play."

Dean was still partly turned toward the door—you never had your back to an exit—and motion outside caught his eye. He risked a quick glance…and saw at least two revenants slinking out of the dusk to flank the car. And a defenseless, sleeping Sam.

Dean turned away out of pure effort of will, glaring venomously at the man who had so casually threatened Dean's whole world. "What do you want?"

"Oh, it's pretty—"

The thing was, he could care less what Trinidad wanted, what any bad guy—thing, person—wanted. He was only playing the part that the villain seemed to expect him to, just long enough to catch the son of a bitch off guard when Dean threw himself at his bed a few feet away.

The knife slid out from under the pillow and into his hand like he'd been born holding it.

Dean had counted at least three revenants in the room. He took out the nearest one with a single sideways slash of the arm, not quite decapitating the creature with the force of the cut but close enough. It helped that decomposition had done half the work for him already, rotten flesh giving way more easily under his blade. A second revenant fell almost as quickly, stabbed through the eye socket.

Two more peeled away from the walls, hissing and ready for him.

Dean feinted toward one, jabbed at the other. He only got a gut shot in, not enough to take down reanimated dead, but enough to buy him a few seconds. He used them to hack twice at the first revenant's neck, separating head from body, then he spun the blade in his hand and sliced it back into the other revenant, adding a chest wound to the stomach injury he'd inflicted seconds before. It took three tries to get that one's head off, but at least it wasn't struggling too hard by the end. Next time, Dean was stashing a friggin' machete under his pillow.

Trinidad didn't look so cool anymore. He'd jumped to his feet and edged around the room toward the door. At first Dean thought the guy was making a run for it, which would be right up the alley of a two-bit bad guy like him. Then the necromancer opened his mouth, yelling to his followers outside the door.

"Now! Take hi—"

He was putting out a kill order on Sam.

Dean didn't even think about it. Didn't check himself, consider his options, try another way first. He had a knife, a threat to Sam stood right in front of him, and he acted.

Trinidad didn't get another word out. Kinda hard with eight inches of steel impaling you. He just kinda jerked and made a gurgling sound.

Jaw set, Dean twisted the blade, riding out the death spasm. Then watched with hard eyes as the guy, evil, _human, _slid off his blade and onto the floor, dead.

He didn't spare the corpse—no life in this one—much thought. He immediately looked up, searching for the revenants Trinidad had been about to sic on Sam.

They were on the ground already, strings cut with the death of their master. The threat was eliminated; Sam was safe.

And sitting up in the car, staring wide-eyed and pale through the windshield at his blood-spattered brother.

Adrenaline ebbed as quickly as it had come, leaving behind its peculiar clear-headedness. Dean blinked, came awake, glancing around with new perspective at the scene of carnage inside their motel room: four revenants in pieces, blood and gore everywhere, all over Dean. And the human being he'd gutted, that Sam had watched him execute without a moment's hesitation, lying at his feet.

Dean swallowed, suddenly sick.

This was him; this was what his dad had trained him to be. He was a hunter, a killer. Dean had no illusions about himself.

But Sam…he'd always tried to keep that part from Sam. Play up the lady's man, the bad-ass killer of the unnatural, the protective big brother. Not the guy who could take down a bunch of drunk bikers with an economy of movement, or clear a room of undead with just a knife…or eliminate human evil without remorse or consideration of Sammy's precious law.

His gaze skittered miserably up to Sam's for a second.

Sam looked back at him, horrified.

That was it. Dean dropped his knife, and fled.

00000

"_You remember that friend you had in third grade, Tony Aberra? Only reason I remember his name is that I kept track of him after we left town, but you remember, like, everyone who ever said hi to you, so I figure you know who I'm talking about. You two were both in love with Legos then, built all kinds of crap out of Tony's sets._

"_Then Dad told you one day you couldn't get together with Tony anymore, remember? Yeah, of course you remember—you never forgot anything you were mad at Dad about, either. That one was my fault, though, Sam, not Dad's. I told him not to let you go._

"_You knew something was up, too. I mean, you never liked Tony's mom, or at least you didn't talk about her a mile-a-minute like you did about other kids' moms. But I don't think you ever saw the bruises, or that Tony moved sometimes like he was hurt, like Dad did after some hunts. Didn't take me long to catch that bitch beating up her own kid after he got some mud on his clothes one day. I told Dad that night, and that's when he said you couldn't play with Tony again. _

"_You were really upset. I lifted that spaceship Lego set for you that week and you didn't even care, you were so mad at Dad. We both felt really bad for you. And Dad tried to call CPS about Tony's mom, but I guess they didn't really suspect moms very much back then. _

"_It was a couple years later before I heard that Tony ended up in the hospital: busted leg, ruptured spleen, concussion. They took him away from his mom after that. Maybe I should've told you, dude, I don't know, but I was just glad you'd gotten over it and that she never hurt you. Hate to say it, but that was worth you getting mad."_

00000

He knew what he was. Dean wasn't one for self-delusion or denial. The knowledge lay like a hard kernel in his gut every single waking moment, and many sleeping ones.

Most of the time, though, he managed to cover it up with the knowledge that he was doing what needed to be done, saving innocent people and killing bad things. If you spent that much time in darkness, well, you were bound to get a little dark, too. He could live with that.

But the truth was, he could live with that because of Sam. Because no matter how dirty he'd gotten, how low he'd sunk, Sam had still looked up to him. Dean was still a big brother, and that had weighed the scale heavily against the bad things Dean had to do.

When Sam had left, it had gotten a lot harder to keep his balance. Sometimes he'd gone weeks on end without anyone around who really _knew _him, who didn't see him as a killer and conman and slut. It was hard to remind himself then that he was doing something important, that he wasn't like this by choice, doing the dirty work no one else could or wanted to.

Then Sam had come back…and _needed_ him again…and Dean had believed in himself again, believed he was more than just that killer…

But now Sam had seen the real him. Dean had tainted the one sane, clean, safe part left of his world.

He sank to his knees behind the bushes at the end of the motel strip, body wanting to purge itself but unable, it wouldn't help, _God, the way he looked at me…_

"Dean."

His head snapped up, already cringing even as he stared at Sam in disbelief. They were several units down from their room, Sam couldn't even walk without help, and, oh, God, here it came. Dean ran the back of his hand over his trembling lips, braced for breaking.

"I'm not cleaning that mess up by myself," Sam continued with a slight turn of the head back toward their room. It almost sounded like he was teasing.

Dean stared up at him from where he knelt, bewildered.

The mock-sternness eased into what Dean would have sworn in any other circumstance was sympathy, his brother's soft heart coming out. Pity, maybe? "Dean."

Sam was leaning against the wall, Dean suddenly realized, probably too weak and dizzy to stand on his own. Dean should get up and help him. He didn't move.

"Dean," Sam said again, hand coming up to grip the brick wall. "Y'all right?"

He couldn't help it; he flinched.

Sam was practically radiating concern. "Hey. You did what you had to do back there—you know that, man, right? He would've just kept killing people…"

_Starting with you_. He swore his brother heard the unspoken as loudly as Dean did, the way Sam reared back a little.

"You think… Dude, you think this changes anything? This changes things between _us? _You had no choice, Dean. I don't think…less of you or anything for that."

Dean felt dangerously close to tears, humiliation on top of humiliation. "Sam," he choked out.

"No. No, you listen to me." Sam let go of the wall and dropped down to his knees at Dean's eye level, only a bush between them. They probably looked ridiculous. And Dean really didn't care. "You have kept me safe, my _whole life, _Dean. A lot of stuff I know, and a lot more I'll probably never know about." It wasn't pity in his eyes. "You were my home—even when Dad told me not to come back, I knew that didn't include you." It was love and _respect_. "So _this?_ You don't get to feel ashamed about something like this, man. Just 'cause you have to do things sometimes that suck doesn't make you any less, not to me or anyone else. Got it?"

Dean snorted. His shoulders shook a little before he gave in to the laugh. _Got it?_ His mind went to a tiny, outraged Sam, hands on hips, declaring that Dean couldn't stop him from going outside and playing on that awesome swing next door, or that he couldn't possibly go to bed without Dean reading him a story, or that Daddy had no right to yell at Dean like that, _got it?_ Such determination and absolute belief all his life.

In Dean, for some unfathomable reason. Apparently there were some things he'd never really understood before, either.

"Dean?"

"Yeah, Sam, I hear you."

"No, I, uh…" A little embarrassment. "I can't get up."

Dean swore under his breath and climbed up on slightly numb legs. Right: cracked skull, Sam's brain leaking out, and Dean had promised the doctor he'd get Sam straight to bed. He still had no idea how his brother had managed to come all that way after him. "I've gotcha," Dean promised, hooking arms under Sam's when his brother swayed. He could feel the relief in the lean body when Sam could rest his weight on him, and the tension of overtaxed muscles. "Take it easy, I've got it."

"Y'sure?" Sam sighed into his stomach.

He didn't deserve this, probably. But he needed it too much not to take it. "Yeah," Dean said quietly. "I'm sure."

00000

"_I killed my first human when I was eleven._

"_I think maybe… Dad never explained it, but I think somehow a demon latched on to us. You remember that crazy thing with your second-grade teacher, Ms. Lyle? I think you mostly blocked it out, what happened that night, but she wasn't just nuts. She was possessed, and she tried to take you. Dad stopped her, but then this hunter I guess heard about it and figured you were devil spawn or something and started coming after us. He really was cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs, Sam, I mean, you should've seen this guy, kept talking about how you were evil and Dad should kill you. First he tried to grab you—I held him off until Dad got there. But then they fought and the guy had a knife to Dad's throat and said he was gonna still take you, so I…I shot him. Dad always left me a gun for protection, and first time I used it, it was on a person._

"_I think I shook Dad up a little. The way he looked at me… He never really treated me like a kid again after that, you know? But he wasn't mad. He said I did the right thing. And I'd do it again if I had to._

"_But it shook me up pretty bad, too. I never let on, but I had a lot of nightmares about that guy, never forgot him. I guess that's really when I became a hunter, huh?"_

00000

"Dean?"

That voice together with his name had the power to reach him in deepest sleep. Dean blinked at the clock. Three ninety-three. They'd had to change motels, of course, and apparently the clock there was in as good a shape as the plumbing and the bed. He yawned and answered sleepily, "Yeah?"

"Did I ever have a kitten named Ollie?" Sam asked, voice hushed.

Dean paused. "Yeah," he answered, fully awake now.

"Did it die?"

Dean huffed into the pillow, trying to dig himself deeper into the unforgiving mattress. "Well, considering this was about eighteen years ago, I'd say, yeah, probably."

Sam gave a breath of laughter. "Thanks, man. G'night."

Dean closed his eyes and smiled into his pillow. "G'night, Sam."

**The End**


End file.
